


Wool Socks + Chicken Soup

by impossiblepluto



Category: MacGyver (TV 2016)
Genre: Cairo Day 2019, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-11
Updated: 2019-04-11
Packaged: 2020-01-11 17:03:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18428363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impossiblepluto/pseuds/impossiblepluto
Summary: "If Mac's throat feels raw, it's because he's currently sucking in hot, dry, sand-filled air, and definitely not because he's getting sick."...but the prompt for Cairo Day Four is Sickfic, so he's definitely getting sick...





	Wool Socks + Chicken Soup

**Author's Note:**

> First Sandbox story and first Sickfic all in one week?!  
> Happy Cairo Day 4!

Mac is dragging.

He tries to ignore the fullness in his head, and achiness of his joints. A thought runs through his head that he is probably getting sick, but he brushes it off. There's a heaviness in his chest, but he doesn't feel congested. He's not getting sick.

To be fair, the missions lately have left them all absolutely ragged. Even Jack, who over the years has trained his body to run for days on forty-five minutes of sleep, looks ready to drop. Bozer nodded off in the car on the way to ex-fil more than once, and Riley, who normally has trouble sleeping on planes doesn't make it to take off before heavy eyelids close.

Their ex-fils turned into in-fils. They've gone through the clothes in their go bags twice. Easy missions turn into fights for their lives and surveillance turned into a full out marathon sprints through dusty, sandy streets.

So, if Mac's throat feels raw, it's because he's currently sucking in hot, dry, sand-filled air, and definitely not because he's getting sick.

"You got eyes on him, Ri?" Jack gasps, heart pumping, feet pounding, a few feet ahead of Mac, but his pace slowing as they lose their suspect in a maze of shipping containers.

"Ahead about a hundred yards, then turn right," Riley directs.

Jack turns and slaps Mac's shoulder putting on a burst of speed. "Come on, long legs, you slowing down on me?" Jack teases, but even in jest, Mac can read underlying concern. Mac is a runner. He could, and to Jack's dismay often did, outdistance Jack when the two of them ran.

Drawing on reserves of energy he didn't know he had, Mac increases his speed. "Just try to keep up, old man."

"Mac, if you take a right here, you guys will be able to head him off," Riley coaches over comms.

Jack scowls at the idea of separating and reluctantly gestures for Mac to follow Riley's lead, not wasting hard earned breath on arguing or telling Mac to be careful, instead using that oxygen to increase his speed yet again and try to catch up with their suspect before Mac does.

Mac slides on the gravel as he takes a sharp turn. He barely has time to right himself, and definitely does not have time to brace for impact when their suspect, outweighing Mac by at least thirty pounds of muscle barrelled into him.

The two go down hard, in a scramble of limbs. The air exits Mac's lungs in a rush, the surprise collision with the ground leaves him gasping, as his lungs try to remember how to breathe. The suspect on top of him rebooting faster, clambering to his feet. Mac grasps the man's ankle and gives a hard jerk to upend him. But Mac is still gasping like a fish on dry land.

Buzzing in his ear that he recognizes as Riley yelling through the comms, though the words escape him. Probably a warning that the guy is preparing to turn his face into mince meat. He would try to prepare for that if he could get his body back online.

A blur of movement, Mac braces for the blows that don't come. His lungs finally filling enough so his brain isn't panicking at the lack of oxygen and he lifts his head to see Jack securing the suspect with half a dozen zipties.

Mac starts to push up from the ground. Jack at his side in an instant.

"Hey, hey, hold up. You were down for a minute there. You okay?" Jack holds a gentle, but firm hand against Mac's chest to stall his movements.

"Fine," Mac rasps, then clears his throat. "Just had the wind knocked out of me."

"You sure?" Jack leans back on his heels, allowing Mac to sit up. "Not hurting anywhere?"

"Well, it's the last time I play football without pads, but I didn't hit my head," Mac reaches out a hand. "Help me up."

"You're more of a field goal kicker anyway," Jack says, putting an arm around Mac's shoulders and gently guiding him through the towering shipping containers towards their ex-fil. "Next time let the quarterback take on the other team."

"Wait, wait, shouldn't I be the quarterback?" Mac smirks.

"Which one of us actually played football and which one of us only blew up the football field?"

\-------

Mac commandeers the couch as soon as they make it to the plane. The vague ache in his joints has blossomed and now radiates deep into bone and muscle. He eases himself onto the couch, swallowing a groan. He managed to keep Jack's concerns about the hit he'd taken at bay with a rant about football and an argument about team improv's corresponding roles in the sport.

His face still feels flushed but he justifies the warmth with their unplanned dash and his subsequent tussle. The leather cool against his warm skin.

Jack surveys his team settling in for the flight home. Too many missions, too many flights and not nearly enough sleep. Riley's head rests against Bozer's shoulder, and she appears to be already asleep. Bozer gives Jack a nod, before pulling on his headphones and tucking his head against the window.

Mac is out like a light. Jack makes a mental note to give his partner a better once over after a few hours of sleep, just to make sure the uncharacteristic fatigue that has plagued him for the last few days is just fatigue and the tackle didn't leave behind anything more than a few bruises. Jack remains ever on alert as the flight doors are secured. Not until the plane's wheels lift from the runway does he allow himself to settle back into the seat across from Mac and find the rest he craves.

Jack's not sure what wakes him. Bleary eyes open, scanning the cabin for any signs of a threat, or that his team needs him. Bozer and Riley are still out for the count.

Mac shifts restlessly on the couch. A fine shiver runs through him. The cabin is cold, and they'd both fallen asleep in sweat soaked clothes. Jack's own teeth are close to chattering. He pulls out a blanket from the storage compartment under his seat and drapes it over the kid when he notices the flush on Mac's otherwise pale face. He brushes a hand across Mac's forehead to gauge his temperature when Mac startles awake.

"Sorry, bud, didn't mean to wake you," Jack apologizes.

Mac coughs once and winces.

"You sick or something?"

Mac shakes his head. "Just tired." His voice raspy. He clears his throat and barely disguises his flinch at the motion.

"Yeah, well, you've been just tired for about a week, so c'mere, let me look at ya," Jack says.

Mac reluctantly sits up on the couch as Jack perches next to him. Jack brushes the back of his hand against Mac's forehead.

"Okay, you've definitely got a temperature," Jack says, moving his hand from Mac's forehead to cup against his cheek.

"Everyone's got a temperature Jack," Mac snarks but leans into Jack's cool hand.

"Well, yours is higher than it should be, slick. We got a working thermometer around here, or did you break it to use for parts?" Jack asks, standing and rustling through the cabinets above the seats.

"I promised I wouldn't take it apart," Mac rasps, leaning back against the couch, arms crossed over his chest as another shiver shakes him.

"And it works like it's supposed to?" Jack asks suspiciously, pointing at his partner with the thermometer. Mac nods. "Alright then, open up."

Mac rolls his eyes but positions the probe under his tongue.

"How long have you been sick?"

"Not sick." Jack can barely make out the words mumbled around the thermometer, but as he is fully fluent in all things Mac, knows exactly what his partner is protesting.

"Shush, don't talk with your mouth full." A few seconds later the thermometer beeps. "Not sick, huh? Care to revise that statement?" Jack asks after looking at the reading.

Mac frowns and pulls the blanket up higher on his shoulders. "I just need to sleep."

"You need some fluids and something for that fever," Jack says, rummaging through the first aid kit, and triumphantly pulling out some Tylenol.

"It can just run it's course," Mac protests, as Jack checks out the supplies in the mini fridge.

"Maybe if you weren't hanging out close to one hundred and three. That's brain cooking territory and even though you're a snarky, smart ass most the the time, I actually like your brain the way it is."

"Hundred four," Mac argues. "That's when a fever starts getting dangerous. I mean, one hundred three isn't great, but I'm not at a hundred and three."

"See what I mean, always have to argue with everything I say, but I'd still miss that," Jack says, handing Mac a gatorade. Mac sips the beverage and grimaces around the Tylenols, his throat protesting. He starts to hand Jack the bottle.

"Nope, you gotta drink at least half of that now."

Mac frowns. "It hurts," he complains, but follows Jack's directions. Jack rubs slow circles on Mac's back, encouraging him to take another sip.

"When we get home I'll make you some of my mama's chicken soup and tie a wool sock around your neck, don't look at me like that, some of us can cook."

Mac frowns and shakes his head.

"Oh the wool sock thing? Might be an old wives tale but my grandma used to do that for me, and I've never had a sore throat last more'n a day." Jack says, pulling Mac to stretch out on the couch again, his head in Jack's lap.

Jack can see the wheels in Mac's head turning as he tries to science an answer for Jack's claims about the wool sock.

"Stop thinking so hard in there," Jack's hand cards through Mac's hair. "You're already running hot. Don't need you overheating the circuits."

Jack shushes him, recognizing the look in Mac's eyes that he's itching to launch into a lecture. "I know that's not how brains work. I promise you can tell me all about those little gray cells, after you take a nice long nap."

Mac sleeps through the landing, and vaguely remembers a dream-like car ride home. Jack takes his temperature again at some point, he seems annoyed, and makes him drink more gatorade before putting him to bed. As promised he wakes up with a wool sock around his neck. It feels surprisingly good. Warm and comforting.

"So your promise for not dismantling the thermometers didn't include the one here?"

Mac starts to protest, then stops, remembering a number of projects that now contain pieces of the instrument.

"I was going to replace it." His voice husky, but he's pleased to realize it doesn't hurt nearly as bad as it did on the plane.

"Sure you were," Jack says settling on the bed next to Mac, the back of his hand rests against Mac's forehead. "Still a little warm."

Mac squirms out from under Jack's hands, sitting up against the headboard, rubbing tired eyes. "You know that's not really an accurate measurement."

"It's more accurate than the broke pieces you left in your wake." Jack starts to hand him the thermometer. The brand new, intact one. "Can I trust you with this?"

Mac gives him an unamused look.

Jack laughs quietly to himself. "You keep that under your tongue til I get back. I've got some soup and juice in the kitchen."

Mac folds his arms across his chest. Brow furrowed and frowning around the thermometer. His hair sleep mussed and it takes all of Jack's resolve not to reach out and brush it into some semblance of control.

Mac is still frowning when Jack returns with the promised juice and soup.

"What's it say?" Jack asks.

"It's low grade," the hoarse rasp negates his reassurances.

Jack dispenses another dose of Tylenol anyway, despite Mac's protests that he doesn't need it, and steadies the glass that Mac presses to his lips.

The soup might even rival Bozer's, though he'll never admit to either man. The last thing he needs is some super spy version of cutthroat kitchen taking place in his kitchen.

Regardless, the soup is warm and comforting, soothing against his throat. He can just picture Jack on the couch in the Dalton farmhouse, sipping the soup his mama made for him. In moments like this, when his temperature is up and his defenses are down, and emotions are close to the surface, when he wonders what his life would have been like, if his mom had been around to make soup when he was sick.

"You okay, bud? You hurtin'?" Jack asks concerned, noting the way Mac's eyes are turning pink.

Mac blinks hard a few times. "Just... thanks."

He looks up at Jack so earnestly that suddenly, Jack is the one blinking hard. He sets the nearly empty bowl aside and pulls Mac in for a quick hug, that Mac doesn't immediately try to wiggle out of. In fact, he might snuggle into it a little bit.

Jack feels the kid's breathing start to even out, and carefully maneuvers him back against the pillows. He settles for one last brush of Mac's blond hair, when Mac's fingers grasp the hem of his shirt.

"Do you... would you... stay?"

"Always, kid."


End file.
